


The Dog's Bite

by OneSmartChicken



Series: Sociopathic Empath Joan Watson and the Messes She Gets Into (and Out Of) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (joan-centric), BAMF!John, F/F, Fade-To-Black Sex Scenes, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, It's confusing, John-centric, Violence, and not enough sherlock overall sorry sherlock, but I'm not sure what level it really is, cisgenderswaps, empath!John, no other noted genderswaps, probably an excessive amount of badassery from joan, sociopath!John, somehow i forgot to tag for, sorry - Freeform, this fic confuses me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSmartChicken/pseuds/OneSmartChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joan meets Jim and hates him. Fem!Sherlock. Joan's a sociopathic empath.</p>
<p>A reimagining of the pool scene with these variables. For funsies.</p>
<p>(Essentially a stand-alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dog's Bite

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to make Watson in all incarnations a highly sexual person, but a limited romantic person. As such there is mention of Joan in relationships with people other than Sherlock, but this is very much a Johnlock fic, I assure you.  
> I feel like I should warn for the fact I put a lot of effort into making Joan seem--well, kinda fucking insane, at least in some parts. I drew parallels between her and canon Moriarty, that's the best warning I can give. There is also mention of past self-harm, and Joan is imprisoned for a significant period of time. There is a good deal of questionable morality, and some people die off-screen (no one's sad). Mycroft is likeable, if a bit of a bastard, Mystrade is implied, and Anthea is cool. Joan is occasionally scary, consistently loyal, and terribly in love. Sherlock is stroppy, surprised, and absolutely stubborn. Everything works out better than expected.
> 
> This was intended to be posted after a couple of others, but it's been sitting here complete for a while so eh. It assumes some knowledge but I don't think it _requires_ anything other than itself.

It's cold and damp and dark and Joan can sense the blips of the snipers in the not-so-distance, of 'Jim' (she knew he wasn't Molly's boyfriend, knew he was a snake, but she hadn't known this, though she might have guessed it, given time) standing in the room feeling smug and dramatic. She has an earpiece and a jacket and a vest of explosives and all of them should feel heavy, she knows that, but mostly they feel _annoying._ Joan is bored and angry, she is very tired, and she misses ~~her anchor~~ Sherlock. It was stupid, her storming out. To see _Sarah._ Joan didn't care about Sarah. Oh she was a good shag, but nothing more. She knew it too, of course; Joan never lied about her relationships, and Sarah had been more than happy to indulge in no-strings-attached casual sex. She would break off even the shagging after this though, she thought. Go back to pulling in bars when she got an itch she couldn't quite scratch on her own.

Standing in the stall with her jacket and Jim's vest and that stupid earpiece, she had a desperate urge to yell _Bored!_ in true Sherlockian fashion. This was terrible. The only reason she was even still here was because she didn't know what Sherlock was doing, what the blasted mad woman might do. She couldn't let Sherlock wander into Jim's grasping fingers, knowingly or otherwise.

Finally--oh at last--she felt Sherlock's flame-bright mind. Her jaw tightened at Sherlock's almost innocent glee, her eagerness, curiosity. Admittedly, it wasn't as if Joan didn't understand, as if she herself had been concerned for the victims. Rather the opposite, in fact; she had felt Sherlock's concern for them, even if it was a more distant, muted thing than someone "normal" might have felt. It felt like watching Sherlock self-destruct though. Digging herself deeper and deeper into the barb-filled hole labeled "freak."

She tilted her head to better fill herself in a brief reprieve with the enticing whirlpool of Sherlock. And then she stretched her senses again, blocking out the unimportant pedestrians, and waited.

She played Jim's parrot, hands tucked into the jacket pockets, although she couldn't help glaring at Sherlock's shocked betrayal. _Don't be an idiot,_ she wanted to shout. After all, how could she ever betray Sherlock? Joan couldn't. It wasn't possible, not now, after everything. Probably not since she shot the cabbie--maybe before that. When she got rid of that ridiculous limp, perhaps. It didn't matter 'when', though, the fact of the matter was that was how it was; Joan was ultimately incapable of betrayal when it came to Sherlock. Fact.

It was an honest relief when Jim revealed himself, although it annoyed her to feel Sherlock's disappointment in herself--for not realizing it sooner. And then a burst of appreciation, of something like _lust._

Joan could not--would not stand there feeling that. That was...it was one of the most disgusting things she had ever felt, although she couldn't possibly say why. It itched under her skin, and she needed it to stop.

It was pure convenience that Jim ("Moriarty") had his back to her, pure convenience that he wasn't prepared for her to tackle him, jam her toes into the back of his knee and slam him to the ground.

He was laughing, cocky, as she turned him onto his back and pressed her arm to his throat. Her training supplied willingly the appropriate level of pressure to exert, hurting without cutting airflow. Not completely. (Not yet.)

"You can't hurt me!" he _giggled_. She sneered as the red dots clustered, ignored even the ones on Sherlock. Because her fingers were against his skin and there was no escape in sight.

"Oh but Jim, I want to," she breathed. Her eyes went wide, wild, _mad_ , and she felt the spark of fear as he realized _he had miscalculated._ He got it wrong. Her mouth twisted in a facsimile of a smile, all bared teeth and danger. "I want to pull out your spleen and shove it down your throat. I want to rip you to shreds and burn the pieces while you're still screaming. I want it so bad, Jim, why can't I have it?" Her expression shifted, an exaggerated pout, and the fear began to show in his face. The smile returned, wider, more a grin now, as honest, deadly glee ran through her with a low, mad giggle of her own.

"I'll kill her," he swore, eyes darting like a mad dog to Sherlock. He looked feral, although he lay limp beneath her. She doubted he even realized it, realized the fist she had around him. "I'll put an end to your precious detective, _Doctor Watson!_ "

Well, she could hardly leave him with only part of the equation.

"Of course--but, oh, darling, can you kill her before I kill you? What's the phrase-- _I will burn the heart out of you._ " She was leaned in close, expression dark, just a moment, and then that grin was back with a laugh. Sherlock was afraid now, afraid in a confused way, instead of the worried-scared-anxious she'd been struggling with since the vest was revealed. But Joan was in too deep for distraction. "You can't escape, Jim. I'm _inside_ you. Pick you poison, Jimmy; call off your snipers and maybe I'll end you quick, like a heart attack, or an aneurism." A pause to smirk, and then she let that grin fall away and it was pure (in a distasteful use of the word) uncaring death pooling on her lips, dripping down her expression like a cloak that bared the soul. "Or I can turn you into a drooling mess, and I will drag you and your tiny men down like tiny little dominoes. You could end me with a button--but I could crush you with a thought. Tick tock, Jim."

She waited, didn't name a time, let his quickening pulse beat the seconds away. Jim dropped his phone, and she felt his mind embrace its end. Only then, with her mental fingers wrapped around his heart, did she look up to see the horror in Sherlock's face. She hesitated, and then smiled sadly at her flatmate.

"I lied," she murmured. "I'm sorry, love, really, I am--but it's up to you. You have to choose. The snipers don't matter. Now, finish the story, sweetheart; what happens to Jim?" She couldn't help the endearments, didn't know if she'd ever again get the chance to use them at this rate. And doing this to Sherlock, she wasn't sure she should, wasn't certain any longer that she wouldn't hurt the genius. This wasn't a decision Sherlock should ever have to make. She supposed some would say it was a decision no one should have to make, the decision between life and death, but she was Joan Watson, and she was a realist. Someone had to, and Joan never minded it being her, but that, she supposed, was precisely why it shouldn't be her choice to make. Especially not in this instant, when she wanted him dead so utterly.

And, it was terrible, but this man was Sherlock's. Here, in this scenario, with only the three of them, Jim belonged to Sherlock as Sherlock belonged to Joan and Joan belonged to--well, Sherlock, rather, but she skewed the scenario.

That was the problem, wasn't it.

Sherlock, though, she looked _wrecked._ Joan thought her heart might be breaking to see her mad genius so. And only minutes after she had been so offended by the idea of betraying Sherlock, she was doing just that.

She didn't realize she was crying (alone, again, so terribly alone) until the tear splashed onto Jim's face. He was staring, still caught in the loop Joan had put him in, although she saw more comprehension in his eyes than she had expected. Of course. Bloody geniuses. She felt Sherlock's decision, and in an instant her hand was over Jim's face.

Jim stopped.

Joan breathed.

Sherlock choked.

She leaped off of Jim, lunging to grab her flatmate and drag her into a stall, out of sight of the snipers, just in case.

"He's not dead," was the first thing she said, followed by, "You didn't want me to kill him."

"Psychic?" Sherlock wheezed. Joan forced her head down between her knees.

"Breathe, dear. I'm not psychic. Or, well, I am; a branch of it, I guess. I'm an empath. You know what that is?" Sherlock shook her head. Of course. "Went the way of the solar system. Alright, love. Empaths don't read minds, but they can sense emotions. And manipulate them, to the extreme. I've never met anyone else like me, before you ask, but I've also never gone looking. And I didn't kill Jim because you weren't sure you wanted him alive, but you didn't want to watch me kill him, not like that. Did I get that right?" Sherlock nodded between her knees. "Good, it's all a bit guess work with empathy."

"Why are you holding my head down?"

"You were starting to panic, Sher," Joan soothed, petting her curls. Really, they were just too tempting, and she was quite tired. Sherlock stirred faintly. "Don't deny it, love; empath, remember? I am sorry, for what it's worth, that I didn't tell you sooner. I'm not crazy; you saw what I did to Moriarty. It's okay, stop--oh." She looked up, feeling the snipers cut off one by one, and then the familiar smug-worry-ice sweeping closer. "Your brother's here."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered. Joan sighed at the tiny, baby-sister hope blooming in the genius.

"Yes, Mycroft's here. I'll tell him what happened, if you like--I'll tell the truth, I mean," Joan murmured, bent so low that there were curls touching her nose. Which was why, when Sherlock suddenly jerked upright, Joan wound up with a bloody nose. Not that Sherlock noticed, too busy clutching Joan's arm and broadcasting a totally different kind of panic.

Mycroft walked in before Sherlock could say a word, Joan wiping the blood from her face patiently.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, I thought you might be here. I take it you handled the situation?" the British Government inquired politely.

"Hello, Mycroft," she nodded. "Yes, or rather--have you ever heard of empaths, by any chance?"

"No!" Sherlock blurted. She was scowling fiercely at the both of them, a sudden 180 from her previous panic--and, strangest of all, her emotions genuinely reflected the change. "No. He hasn't. And neither have you or I. They're silly, and ridiculous, and obvious they don't exist." She stood briskly, straightening out her coat and giving her hair a little pat to settle it some. "Now then. Joan and I have wrapped up your criminal mastermind rather nicely. I feel we deserve a break, don't you, Joan?" And then she stared. No, not looked, this was not a looking look, this was a very meaningful _stare._

"Sherlock, love," Joan murmured. "I told you, not psychic. No matter how hard you think them at me, I can't hear your thoughts."

Sherlock's expression turned even more thunderous and intense. "He can't have you," she suddenly announced, then turned sharply to glare at Mycroft. Louder, she told him, "You can't have Joan, Mycroft! She's mine, _piss off!"_

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed pitying. Joan's smile was small, accepting. Resigned.

"For what it's worth," she began, unaware of her own fingers clutching Sherlock's sleeve, "I never manipulated Sherlock. Not with my empathy, at least. Not even when she was in a strop with one of her black moods. I did trick her into eating a few times, but that was just...me. Do try not to let Jim escape though; if I run into him again, I doubt I'll leave anything for you." She smiled, only then pulling away from Sherlock, offering her wrists to Mycroft, although it was purely metaphorical; Mycroft was far too dignified for handcuffs (except maybe with Greg, if either of them ever worked up their nerve).

He nodded acquiescence before tilting his head towards Sherlock, Joan dropping her hands once more. "I cannot condone leaving you with someone so dangerous," he said apologetically.

Sherlock squawked a protest. "You left her with me with a gun!" she cried.

"Yes," he agreed. "I trusted her with your body--I do not trust her with your mind. Or, for that matter, your heart. Joan, if you would go with...Anthea, I would prefer to see my sister home personally." Joan nodded, starting for the door as Mycroft stepped aside, but was stopped by a hand on her wrist. She turned to find a pair of huge puppy eyes boring into her.

"Don't leave me," Sherlock breathed, barely a sound at all.

"I have to," Joan both informed and realized. "Oh Sherlock, love, I'm sorry, really, truly I am--I can't trust me with you either though." She leaned up, all the way onto her tip-toes, just to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. Finally, though, she had to pull away, and when "Anthea" shot her a glance, she fell obediently into step, forcing herself to listen to Sherlock's heart break every step of the way.

 

(*)

 

The room is nice, at least, she noted some time later. They had taken a long drive, outside of London, without telling her where; she had considered simply naming likely places until she got a reaction, but really, the where didn't seem important. Not beyond the certain knowledge that she was hours from Sherlock. They were in a house in the country side, but she was in a room with no windows and only two doors; one to a bathroom, and one leading into the hallway, but locked tight. Given that it was Mycroft's room, Joan did not waste her time in investigating for an escape route.

But, on point, the room itself (overlooking the entrapment) was quite nice. Large, in fact, about the size of their living room. The bed was a queen with unnecessarily luxurious linens and more pillows than she could possibly use, although the mattress was pleasantly firm. There was an e-reader with no internet connection but an excessive library. The bathroom was sizable and well-stocked with anything she could possibly need. There was even a mini fridge in one corner, with snacks and drinks. Although, there was a decided lack of tea.

Actually, the tea shortage would be considered a problem, but only if Mycroft was overlong in sorting it out, which she doubted. She suspected that he would happily spoil her, so long as she cooperated, although how pleasant that might be for her remained to be seen.

Done with her cursory examination, she selected a bag of biscuits and bottle of water from the fridge, picked up the e-reader, and made herself comfortable on the bed. There was a significant amount of reading material featuring lesbians, she discovered immediately. Joan actually enjoyed indulging, a bit, even if most of them were either pure porn, or written by or for girls and women under the age of 25. Joan had never been exceptionally picky about books, really. They were something of an escape, a pleasure of emotions she could experience without _feeling._ Books were a moment of quiet after a long day at work, and every day was work and war alike for Joan. Television served a similar purpose, but since the war it was overly loud. Books were nice.

 

(*)

 

Mycroft didn't arrive until 8:00 am (according to the e-reader) the next morning, giving her time for nearly half a full-night's rest after a fair amount of reading. A nice long nap. The cool sweep of his personal emotions, lacking the usual heavy worry she associated with Sherlock's protective older brother, stirred Joan from dark dreams. Her eyes flickered open, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but her vest top and pants, by the time the door swung open. She smirked at his brow-twitch as he took in her bare legs, no doubt noticing every scar. His gaze lingered on the self-inflicted ones.

"I was bored in secondary school," she told him, tapping a finger against a cluster of thin white lines. "It was a helpful learning tool."

Mycroft only hummed in response. He strode into the room, door swinging shut behind him, iconic umbrella dangling from his fingertips. A show of trust. Joan tilted her head curiously at him. His smile was thin.

"You may be my prisoner, Dr. Watson, but I have no doubt you are still as loyal to Sherlock as ever." Joan snorted.

"Like a dog, you mean?" she accused. Mycroft tilted his head in acquiesence. She laughed.

"Moriarty was aprehended," Mycroft changed the subject. "He woke several hours ago and has been so far unhelpful. He has made demands to see you."

Joan hadn't been expecting that. "I thought he was a genius," she remarked.

"He is," he assured her. "Merely an exceptionally arrogant one. I presume he believes that if Sherlock can withstand you, he can as well."

That made her laugh again. "What does he think he could possibly offer that I wouldn't twist him just as neatly as last night? He sounds like an idiot, Mycroft. You planning to let me see him?"

"That depends," Mycroft considered. "On if you will kill him if I do."

"Probably," she confirmed. "He'll go after Sherlock again if I don't. I find that unacceptable."

Mycroft nodded. "I agree. Perhaps you should put on your trousers, Dr. Watson, and whatever other attire you find necessary."

Joan stepped into trousers briskly as Mycroft stood aside, watching in an utterly unconcerned way. His mental state reflected only his concern (for Sherlock she presumed); he really had no interest in Joan's body. She left her jumper off after some thought, deciding she preferred the vest top alone. It reminded her of the army. She did tug it off though, at which point Mycroft politely looked away, in order to latch her bra into place, instead of bothering with the short acrobatics needed to put a bra on without removing the top (much harder than taking it off, particularly since her shoulder still pulled).

"Alright," she alerted him to the replacement of her vest, shoving her still-socked feet into sneakers. "Let's go."

Mycroft lead her wordlessly from the room, padding down long halls. There were only a handful of people in the many rooms they passed, but when Joan extended her senses, she noted several dozen minds more. Including one gleaming beacon.

Moriarty.

"I could have killed him from the room," she mused aloud. Mycroft stopped in his tracks without turning. "After all that rooting around I did last night--I could probably kill him from a few streets off." The knowledge pleased her.

"You are...far wider-ranged than any empath or psychic currently in my employ," Mycroft finally commented.

"Most of them have probably not been to war," she shrugged. They continued walking.

"How did you survive in a warzone?" he inquired.

"I am a lot more of a sociopath than your sister could ever be."

"Ah." A pause as he thought, then, "How does one combine empathy with its polar opposite?"

"Through great determination," she lied, more because the truth involved too long an explanation rather than any lingering desire to hide from Mycroft. He was loyal to Sherlock as well; she didn't care about much beyond that.

Mycroft gave her a look that suggested he had noticed the untruth, but he did not inquire further. Not yet, at least, which was good enough for her.

 

(*)

 

Jim's room was a lot less nice than hers. Bare walls, cameras in various locations, no creature comforts other than a bathroom without a door, only Jim Moriarty, three chairs and a table, all bolted to the ground. Jim was handcuffed to his chair for good measure. Joan glanced over it all briefly, before walking over to take a seat across from him.

"Jo," Jim greeted with a reptillian smile. "You've been keeping secrets."

"Does that mean you're looking to share yours?" she asked blandly. Jim's displeasure rippled outwards. She wrapped it in a mental fist and crumpled it like a paper ball. Jim flinched, displeasure replacing itself, along with a quiver of fear. Joan leaned forward to brace her arms on the table. "Tell me, Jimmy," she purred. "Tell me a story." James Moriarty talked and talked and talked, and Joan didn't have to say a word.

 

(*)

 

It was six months later that Mycroft sat down at what became Joan's bedside. She had pajamas now, and run of the house. Sometimes she wandered out into the yard, just to feel the sun on her skin. She was comfortable with Mycroft too, trusting in him as he regularly trusted in her with almost a stream of criminals. After Moriarty, she never killed under that roof, but she knew her assistance saved no few lives, and ended others. Mycroft's emotions were nearly as familiar to her now as Sherlock's, although her fondness for him was a lazy thing compared to the bonfire she continued to maintain for her mad detective. She still woke as soon as Mycroft was within immediate range, of course. Now she stayed in bed though, snuggled into silk linens. He took his usual chair by her bed, and she watched him as he thought, a regular occurrence. His emotions were an unfamiliar turmoil this time, jostling against each other. She let them wash over her, analyzing them as they clarified themselves. As was their agreement, she didn't alter any of them, not even to soften their edges, and on his part, Mycroft made no attempt to contain them, something that was rarely effective against her and tended to give her a headache.

Joan didn't have enough data to understand the reasons behind the emotions, but she didn't mind. She just laid there and waited for the Holmes to speak.

"I spoke with Sherlock this morning," he told her. She tilted her head, acknowledging the warmfrustrationlovehurt emotion bundle that Mycroft always carried after seeing his sister. "She has...missed you. A great deal." Worryworryfrustration. Joan blinked, a slow fluttering of pale lashes. "You have, of course, been immeasurably helpful in the past half year." Honestyappreciationconcernregret. "I have begun to consider, however, that there may be a place to which you are better suited." Joan jerked upright so fast Mycroft jolted, emotions overwhelmed for just a heartbeat by shock before settling back down. She stared at him with the intensity of a snake, and Mycroft's lips curved. Pleasedsmugrelieved _happy._ "If you don't mind, I can have your bags packed and sent after you tomorrow."

Joan leaped out of bed, grabbed Mycroft's face, thunked her forehead against his with a wordless sound of glee, and then practically danced towards her dresser. She was grinning like a loon and she didn't care, listening to Mycroft chuckle behind her. Humming an upbeat tune, she tossed her nightie at the bed, glancing over for the ever-amusing sight of Mycroft with an averted gaze, then dragged on a pair of the jeans, pants, bra, and vest top that she'd had bought for her during her stay. They were all high-quality but appealingly plain, soft to the touch like she preferred. A few of the tops had prints on them, most of them, surprisingly, some sort of joke on Mycroft's part. This one was jersey-gray with hearts the color of Sherlock's favorite scarf. Joan actually quite liked it.

"Good choice," Mycroft chimed in, and she could hear the laughter in his emotions despite the perfectly level tone of voice. She shot him a look.

"You Holmeses," she observed, "are very odd." Mycroft's amusement only grew, a pleasant buzz that danced against her senses, particularly enjoyable on her part.

Rolling her eyes, Joan ducked into the bathroom to wash her face and scrub her teeth, giving her close-cut hair a few rubs to get it in order. Having it cut short again had been nice, in all honesty, although she had also enjoyed growing it out with Sherlock. She spiked it with some water, grinning at her reflection, then strode back into the bedroom. Mycroft was standing, expectantexcitedhappy. The happiness was freaking her out a little, but it was a good sort of weird. She pulled on a chocolate-colored cable jumper, one of the absurdly thin and soft ones she knew Mycroft had had a hand in picking for her. They were absolutely decadent and she had no intention of giving a single one of them up.

"If I'm missing any jumpers tomorrow, I will be very upset," she stated aloud, and Mycroft's emotions were amusedagreeable; he had learned how to communicate with her with nothing but emotions within the first week, and seemed almost relieved to not need words. He still enjoyed manipulating everyone in every way possible, of course, but a bit of honestly probably did him good.

"Come on, you arse!" she whooped out the door, Mycroft following her with a burst of exasperation. "You're so happy I can taste it, shove off!" She laughed, and didn't think once about how in the progression of Mycroft's newfound honesty, Joan had perhaps changed a great deal as well.

 

(*)

 

She got to watch the country pass by on the drive this time, although the main enjoyment was in the knowledge that every tree or house passed was another step closer to Sherlock. Her knee was bouncing by the time they drove into London. She was jittering when they turned onto Baker Street. Shaking as they came to a stop in from of 221. The car brakes were still in action, in fact, when she flung the door open and leaped out.

The door to 221 was, as was often the case, unlocked and she burst in without hesitation, pounding up the stairs. Their door opened by the time she hit the landing--and despairshockdisbeliefjoyragerelief hit her like a truck. She stopped mid-step, staring at her curly-haired flatmate. Sherlock looked a mess. Her clothes were stained, her face gaunt, her fingers marked with new scars.

But when Joan stopped, Sherlock started. She stepped forward just far enough to reach out and grab Joan, at which point she hauled her inside, slammed and locked the door, and then she just stood there. Her hands were latched onto Joan's arms, her gaze stuck on Joan's face, and her emotions were in a loop. _Disbelief hope anger hope disbelief reliefreliefrelief._

"Joan?" she whispered.

"Oh Sherlock," Joan sighed as a part of her she had forgotten in the months since leaving Sherlock suddenly loosened in a wave of relief. At the sound of her voice, Sherlock suddenly released her and jerked away. She strode away, across the room, only to hastily circle back around towards her. Joan watched, uncertain, the only just relaxed piece of her starting to knot again.

"You--" she started, stopped and turned away again. Stalking, pacing, "You left." The accusation was anguished, the look she shot Joan absolutely terrible.

Joan unfroze to step forward. She reached out, slow, in case Sherlock wanted to dodge. She stood there, though, as Joan wrapped her in her arms, warmth spreading immediately between them even as Sherlock remained unresponsive.

"I'm sorry, love," Joan whispered, and caught her flatmate when her knees gave out. She hugged Sherlock tight, letting them both slide to the ground, stretching out her legs so Sherlock was sprawled across her lap. "I had to," she breathed, petting Sherlock's hair. "I know, I'm sorry, but I had to go. I'm back now. I promise, I won't go anywhere. Not unless you want me to."

_"No,"_ Sherlock gasped. She grabbed Joan like a lifeline, holding with all her trembling strength. "Never again."

"Okay," she murmured. "Okay." Burying her nose in Sherlock's curls was a soft, welcome sensation, her fingers digging into the nape of the genius' neck. Sherlock's clutched at Joan's jumper, knotted in the material. They remained there, silent, for over a full minute before Sherlock suddenly pulled away, although she made no move to vacate Joan's lap.

"Mycroft bought that," she scowled. Joan didn't stand a chance against that face and sulky tone, grinning helplessly at the younger woman.

"Mhmm," Joan confirmed without qualms. "Actually, he bought my whole wardrobe. Pants too." Sort of. He paid for them at least, she was pretty sure, and he was definitely the one who gave the order to have them bought, but she was fairly certain they were handpicked by someone else entirely. Anthea, maybe, who seemed to enjoy Joan's presence of late. Mostly she said it for Sherlock's flash of indignation though. It was probably rude to giggle in her clearly still distressed flatmate's face, so she politely looked away before she gave in to the urge.

Sherlock flapped to her feet in a huff. "Why are you back?" she demanded, storming off to the kitchen. Joan scrambled up to follow her, falling easily back into old patterns.

"Because Mycroft said you missed me," she answered with cheerful honesty. "And," she continued before Sherlock could take offense. "Because _I_ missed _you._ " She had to reach up, but she managed to ruffle Sherlock's hair, making a face at how greasy it was. She had somehow overlooked that when she stuck her nose in it. Blinded by love.

Sherlock scowled fiercely down at her, visibly torn between storming off again. Instead, she had a sudden affectionatedecisive bloom of feeling and Joan found herself grabbed in another hug, this one tight and fierce. Her response was a graceless flounder before she caught up, grabbing the taller woman in return.

"Don't leave again," Sherlock murmured into her hair, which was clean and fluffy, for the record.

"Not unless you need it," Joan replied with terrible honestly. Sherlock grabbed her arms though, not satisfied.

_"Never again,"_ Sherlock demanded, pushing her back to stare at her intensely. "Never, Joan. It's not worth it."

Joan considered before offering, carefully, "I'll always come back--I can promise that, but if you're safer without me here, I'll leave, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared. Her emotions were a turmoil around her, frustratedangryloud crashing against Joan's senses. There was a moment of defeat, abruptly overcome by determination once again. Joan fought a smile.

"We're usually safer together," Joan pointed out. "And I do prefer to be with you." Sherlock's gaze sharpened to a glare again.

"Do you?" she asked. "Good. I will not allow Mycroft to take you from me again though."

"You really did miss me, huh?" Joan mused, smiling up at her, at the angrysharppossessive tease at her senses. "I should discourage you from being so possessive, but I don't really mind when it's me." She shrugged. The rush of needwanthappylove made her gasp, and Sherlock took full advantage.

Joan didn't know if Sherlock had ever had sex before, but she was definitely not a novice kisser. Long fingers buried into her shorn hair, thumbs cradling her temples as she clutch at Sherlock's shoulders. Their tongues turned against each other, twisting in wet heat, eager and demanding in turns. It was a plundering, victorious and desperate sort of kiss, and neither of them wanted to break it.

It was Joan who eventually did pull away, her hands having migrated to clutch at Sherlock's shirt at some point. She was panting, heart racing, cheeks flushed with the crushing need of Sherlock's emotions.

"What?" she asked, because it seemed like a very important question.

"You're an empath, should you really need to ask that?" Sherlock arched a brow.

"Affectionate, happy, possessive, worry, warm, good, need, want, contentment, knowledge--I know what your emotions say, Sherlock, I'm just not sure I'm reading them right. I told you--guess work. It's not an exact science."

"That is a redundant phrase," Sherlock pointed out. "You are most likely reading them correctly however."

"Oh, good. I love you too," Joan decided, nodding, and when Sherlock flushed with pleasure, she dragged her down for another kiss.

 

(*)

 

Kissing lead to the bedroom, where there was more kissing, and heavy petting, and Joan straddling Sherlock's hips just for the thrill of being taller.

Joan eventually wound up with Sherlock draped over her chest though, the soldier stretched out on her back while Sherlock curled in close, practically burrowing into Joan's neck.

"What did you do?" Sherlock murmured into the peaceful quiet. Joan's fingers paused in their toying with Sherlock's curls (still greasy; she really did need to shove the genius under some hot water soon). Sherlock tensed, however, so Joan resumed her petting. As the genius relaxed under her ministrations, Joan realized she never wanted to lie to Sherlock, not even by omission, and so she answered.

"I started with Moriarty." Sherlock bristled at the name. Joan craned her neck to kiss her detective's head. "I got names and information from him, made him malleable. He was screaming, in his head. I drove him utterly mad, madder than he was originally, and then I killed him." Silence, heavy and deafening, but there was no judgment, no horror or anger in Sherlock. Joan sighed relief. "Mycroft has six empaths under his employ. He used me as a last resort, mostly. First he only wanted me to kill Moriarty, I think, but I proved...useful."

"You used current tense," Sherlock stated, emotions gone mysteriously irritable. Looking up, she clarified before Joan could ask, "Six empaths in his employ."

"Well...yes. I don't remember their names, but Mycroft would probably give you the files if you asked." Joan puzzled at her, brow creased heavily.

Sherlock started to grumble, only to stop with her mouth open. And then she laughed, irritation clearing like fog blown off. _"Consulting empath,"_ she whispered.

Joan took a moment to understand, but was quick to laugh as well once she caught on. "One of a kind!" she declared, and they both giggled. Joan sighed again, happy. Utterly content. "I'm a sociopath without you," she murmured, brushing a stray lock from Sherlock's forehead. "Not the sort you pretend to be--Mycroft suggested, after I told him, that I accidentally block out my own emotions. But I never block out yours, love. With you, even just thinking about you--I feel so much." Sherlock wordlessly shuffled lower on the bed to kiss Joan, longing, tender. Her emotions were overwhelmingly fond, improbably sweet. Joan didn't put name to them, just smiled as they washed her in warmth.

"I love you," she whispered, not like a secret, but a promise. Sherlock didn't say it back, not verbally; her emotions shouted it, though. That was enough for Joan, more than enough; she would have stayed forever even if Sherlock hated her. "No one else, darling," she added, knowing Sherlock needed it. "Because of you, I like people--I like Greg well enough, and Molly, Mrs. Hudson of course, Mycroft even. But, at the risk of sounding like a cheesy romance novel--I've rather entirely given to you my heart."

They kissed for a while after that, slow and soft, and when they curled together again, Sherlock dozed off with her nose in Joan's chest. Joan watched her sleep for a while. It was a new experience, a new vantage point for a new sight. Sherlock exuded sleep as she did all other feelings, and Joan didn't even notice when she closed her eyes, had no recognition for sleep until she was under its fold.

 

(*)

 

Dreams of emotions (she rarely dreamed in much else, just feelings around her, telling a story only she could decipher) transitioned into breathing in love until it consumed her being. She woke gasping, eyes hot and damp, skin oversensitive.

The warmth began to retreat behind cautionworryfear and Joan desperately reached out, turning over and managing to grab Sherlock's collar by chance. She dragged her back from the other side of the bed, where she had no doubt been watching Joan like a buggering gargoyle, and pressed frantic kisses to her mouth. Sherlock responded instantly, caution melting into love once more.

Lovelovelove. No love felt quite like Sherlock's, as heady and addictive and _brilliant._

"Love you," she gasped into the kissed. "I love you," she kissed into Sherlock's throat. "I love you," she sighed as teeth dragged against her collarbone. "I love you," she breathed as fingers delved under her shirt. _"Sherlock,"_ she keened and that was all she needed to say.

 

(*)

 

Joan had never been so exhausted after sex.

She sprawled across Sherlock's bed (big and soft and so much better than Joan's one upstairs, which she had no desire to re-inhabit any time soon). Sherlock was already up and about, full of manic energy and a happiness that buzzed against Joan. Joan wanted to go downstairs, have a cuppa, watch Sherlock, maybe snog some more. She remained in bed.

In fact, she stayed in bed for almost an hour, letting her empathy sprawl out as surely as her body, until she could feel hundreds of people, all of them a quiet medley underneath Sherlock's shining star.

It wasn't until Mycroft's familiar 'thought' pattern tingled at her senses that she rolled out of bed. Yawning, she pulled on a vest top and pants on her way to the bathroom. By the time she had brushed her teeth and washed her face, Mycroft was striding up the stairs. She padded out, over to the couch where Sherlock was ensconced. Bracing her hands on the back of the couch, she leaned down to murmur in her flatmate's ear, "Your brother's here."

Annoyance flared, interrupting contentcuriositypuzzlefun (the usual deduction feelings, although the warm contentment was stronger than Joan had ever felt from her before) followed by a sudden flash of possessive anger. She turned to scowl fiercely at Joan, and then distinctly at her bare legs. Joan shrugged as Mycroft politely knocked.

"They're just legs. And he's seen them before," she remarked, as Mycroft opened the door uninvited; still, polite by his standards, considering he'd knocked at all. Sherlock snarled, rising up in a rush and positively stalking around the couch. Joan watched her curiously, head tilted to take in the almost amusing thrum of Sherlock's possessive jealousy. She swept the dressing gown from herself in a dramatic flair, and then draped it over Joan, pulling it firmly shut.

With a snort, Joan shoved her arms through the sleeves, grinning crookedly as Sherlock fussed with it.

"Really, if I weren't me, I'd tell you being such a possessive arse is a terrible thing, love," she murmured. "But it is me, so." Really, what more needed to be said? She leaned up to peck the detective on the lips. She was still watching Sherlock, wearing a small, fond smile, when the genius turned to her brother.

"Well? What is it," she demanded, and as Mycroft produced a file, their life carried on.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those things I wrote while in a bit of a mood, which is pretty much when this fic series gets attention. I was pleased to add the tiny bit of femslash. Hopefully there'll be more explicit stuff in future installments of this series; sex isn't anything I've ever felt comfortable writing, but I'm trying to expand some.
> 
> I really hope you were a little bit frightened of Joan in here! And most of all that you enjoyed it. Questions, comments, concerns always welcome :D


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